The Renaissance

Once, in the city of Constantinople
a great Emperor ruled, truly noble.
His court offered many a pleasure
but there was one, worth calling treasure.

A magnificent creature, a dove so white
they say, even the angels paled in its sight.
It was fed a royal treat of date and raisin
and lived in a cage of gold, that felt so brazen.

Porschia, a symbol of purity she had become;
with no uncertainties in life to overcome,
lived a life of bliss, unquestionable
and became part of every lore and fable.

As she lay in the glory of the Great Church
an uncouth raven flew in through the porch.
Appalled by its presence, Porschia cried out
“What brings you here, you disgusting lout?”

Unimpressed, the raven bent down to its claws,
to a worm; Porschia thought, another of its flaws.
With gusto it tore into its prey,
leaving Porschia with no words to say.

The stench, overwhelming, Porschia said,
“Eat the raisin and spare the dead”.
It crowed, “This is what I pay to be free,
I wouldn’t trade it, not even for He”.

With this it spread its wings and soared high,
making a spectacle, too good for her eye;
It left her gasping in awe and dismay
and wondering, what could have and what may.

The uneasiness in her heart made her cringe,
She didn’t understand the reason; why it made her twinge.
She turned to the Great Church for a sign,
He didn’t disappoint; the Lord is benign.

Across the heavens swooped a kite,
callous and ugly, but beautiful in full flight.
Alone in her chamber, she gave her wings a pinch,
spread it out and tried, but couldn’t fly an inch.

The bars of gold, she thought, that kept her protected
wasn’t meant to pamper, but keep her restricted.
The chance encounter had made her realize,
that this wasn’t she but a compromise.

It had taken her a life to know the fact
who she was and what was her act.
Her heaven now felt like a prison
there was no wish to live, no reason.

Her wings ached to break free,
to soar high and over the sea.
The dates and raisins, now made her squirm
her last wish was to dine on a worm.

The morning left the great city aghast,
the magnificent creature had breathed her last.
But Porschia was in able hands,
the raven and she, soaring in God’s lands.

~ Dedicated to Appy and her self-inflicting discipline